


At the doorstep

by issa



Series: Fear of Tomorrow [5]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-13 01:16:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7956445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/issa/pseuds/issa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first encounter between Constance and Athos. Enjoy! I don’t own anything you can recognize.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the doorstep

**Author's Note:**

> This story came to my mind when I mentioned the beginnings of the friendship between Constance and Athos….and it insisted that I finally write it down.  
> It can stand alone, but is a prequel to the Fear of Tomorrow series.

Constance stood in the middle of the kitchen. The kitchen that had been hers since last Saturday. She glanced around cautiously, making sure that everything was properly secured.  She knew that her husband wouldn't be back until the end of the month. Although she did not really know what she felt towards Jacques, she was suddenly very lonely. She hoped that someday she would learn to love him. 

 

He was a decent man. A widower. A friend of her father. A wealthy merchant. A very good match for a girl from Pithiviers - a small town near Orleans.

 

However, Jacques seemed to be quite dull. She had tried not to be too upset when business affairs had called him away only three days after their wedding. 

 

_ My older sister became pregnant only one month after her wedding... but she got to spend every night with her husband. I suppose I will have to wait much longer before I have children to fill up this empty house.  _

 

It was strange to live in such a large house, yet have it feel vacant. It was much bigger than the place she had shared with her parents and her five sisters.  However, in that house, there had never been silence, and she had always had company.

 

A loud thump at the door caught her attention. Jacques had told her not to allow any strangers into their house. He stressed that Paris was a dangerous place. 

 

She stilled, and counted to ten in order to rein in her curiosity and fear. Then she rushed upstairs, and peeked out a window in order to get a view of the front door. Her heart nearly stopped when she saw a human shape lying on her doorstep.

 

She ran back down the stairs, desperately trying to decide what to do. She first picked up a large candelabra. However, it was too heavy to carry comfortably, so she opted for a smaller one.

 

She took a deep breath, as if she was preparing to jump into a freezing river, then briskly opened the door. A man fell across the threshold. 

 

She jumped back, terrified. But then she noticed that the stranger was motionless. There was blood was seeping from a cut on his head. 

 

“Monsieur?” She knelt near him, frowning at the strong smell of wine. Her eyes were drawn to the pauldron on the man’s arm.

 

_ My uncle always talked about musketeers with such high esteem… _

 

She then made her decision, although the boldness of it nearly choked her. She was going to let a stranger into her husband’s house.

 

_ Actually, he already is partially IN his house. _

 

Her heart was beating wildly as she dragged the man inside. When she had at last gotten his entire body across the threshold, she sprang to her feet and closed the door. 

 

She stood for a moment and stared at him, stunned at her audacity.  Then she  she jumped into action, and examined the stranger. 

 

Her grandmother had taught her a bit about the basic treatment of wounds. The old woman never had forgot the nightmare of war, when Pithiviers had become a battlefield. 

 

Constance dragged the man to the kitchen, and struggled fiercely to get him onto the large bench, which was not that far off the ground. Ultimately, however, she decided to leave him on the floor. After all, it would be easier to clean. She had no idea how she would be able to get him upstairs, where the guestrooms were located.

 

The young woman got some water and wine, then washed the blood off the man’s face. There was a cut on his temple which was still bleeding heavily. She held pressure on it, but it did not seem to help much.

 

Cursing under her breath, ( _ a thing she should never do in Jacques’ presence!) _ , as her grandmother always did, she rushed for her sewing kit. She quickly found an appropriate needle, then suddenly felt sick. She had watched her grandma stitch up various cuts, and  had even assisted her several times. However, she had never done it herself.

 

She steadied her breathing, and washed the wound with a copious amount of wine. He jerked at her touch, then mumbled something incoherently. An instant later, he was greedily licking at the drops of wine that were trickling down his face.

 

“Oh no! You have definitely had enough, Monsieur!” she said sternly.

 

He made a noise that sounded like he disagreed. 

 

“Lie still!” she ordered, then approached him with a threaded needle.

 

He growled when the needle pierced his skin, but he did not fight her. She sensed that he was somewhat conscious, but she decided to remain silent, focusing on suturing his cut. 

 

When she finished, she made a tidy knot, then applied some calendula oil to fight infection. 

 

He wrinkled his nose at the smell of the oil. He mumbled something in protest, then opened his eyes, only to shut them tightly. He immediately curled up on his side, and vomited half digested wine. 

 

Constance wanted to recoil in disgust, but she could not leave this pathetic drunkard to lie face down in his vomit. She knelt near him, trying to ignore the awful smell.

 

“Easy… you’ve drunk too much… easy… it will pass…”

 

“Shut up, Aramis!” he gasped.

 

“I am not Aramis, and I won’t shut up!” she snapped furiously. “You’re in my husband’s house now, so behave!”  She offered him some water. “Rinse your mouth out.”  

 

This time she placed the bucket properly, within easy reach. She was furious at herself for not thinking about that earlier. Now she would have to clean the floor. Again. 

 

Fortunately, he lay silently when she worked. In the meantime, the water boiled. She made an herbal draught, and brought it back to her guest. 

 

“Drink,” she murmured, placing the cup at his lips. 

He took a sip, then groaned. “That’s awful!” he protested.

“Would you prefer to be on death’s doorstep tomorrow morning?” she asked sternly.

 

He opened his eyes and glanced up at her.

 

“Are you Aramis’ sister?”

 

“No. I don't know any Aramis,” she replied, intrigued by his question.

“Strange… your behavior is very similar… what are you doing here?”

 

“The better question is what were you doing bleeding on my doorstep?!” she replied angrily. 

 

He closed his eyes and mumbled, “Don’t remember…”.

 

He fell asleep, and Constance sighed in exasperation. She unbuckled his weapon belt, and then undid his doublet. He mumbled something incoherently. 

 

She then sat near him on the bench, looking at him properly for the first time. He was young and quite handsome, though he looked ill. He was definitely too thin.

She checked him for other injuries. He moaned when her hands ghosted over his ribs, so she lifted his shirt to check on them.

 

_ It’s only a few days after my wedding, and I am undressing a stranger. Just great!  _

 

His ribs were covered in fresh bruises. She shook her head sadly.

 

“They’ve done a number on you.”

 

She put some salve on his ribs, and a cold rag on his head. She took up a book, and spent the night reading, checking on him from time to time. 

 

Just before dawn, he started to become agitated. She soothed him with softly murmured words. 

 

“Where…?”  he mumbled.

 

“You’re at my husband’s house. How do you feel?”

 

He watched her, a bit stunned.  She offered him some water, and he drank it.  

 

“Who are you?”

 

“Constance. Constance Per… I mean, Bonacieux. I found you, Monsieur, on my doorstep.”

 

“And did you let me in?” He sounded amused.

 

“I dragged you in. Monsieur--?”

 

“Athos, of the King’s Musketeers,” he said slowly.

 

“Nice to meet you. I have prepared some breakfast.”

 

“I’d better not. I mean, thank you, but no.”

 

“Who is Aramis?”

 

“A musketeer.” There was pain in his voice. He gingerly touched the bandage on his head.

 

“Be careful. I had to stitch up that cut.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“You should have the medic check it when you return to the garrison.”

 

“We lost our medic.”

 

“I am sorry.”

 

He hid his face in his hands.

“Hey.” She knelt in front of him. “I have prepared something for you to help with the pain.”

 

“Wine?” he asked hopefully.

 

She sighed in exasperation, then handed him the draught. “No. Willow bark.” 

 

He drank it, then closed his eyes.

 

“Where is your husband?” he asked, his curiosity evident.

 

“He has left for a few days.”

 

“He left you alone with a stranger?!” he asked, astonished.

 

“No. I allowed that stranger into his house during his absence. I doubt he would appreciate my actions.”

 

“He should not. You put yourself and this house in danger. You cannot trust a stranger in Paris, especially a drunk soldier in the street.”

 

“So, do you plan to hurt me?” she asked in irritation. She hated it when men told her what she was supposed to do or not do. 

 

“No! How could I? But this city is a dangerous place.”

 

“I’ve only been here for five days, so… could you perhaps show me the city? I’d prefer to keep out of trouble…” She tried to sound shy, but gave him a hopeful gaze.

 

“My friend would be a far better choice… but first, he… has to recover from his injuries. When he regains some strength, it would be a very good idea for him to show you the city. However, it will take him some time for him to be fit for duty.” She sensed that there was much more that he was not saying. Sadness lingered in his words.

 

“You drank because you’re worried about him,” she said, then immediately murmured an apology. She should not be so bold. Her husband would not approve of that. 

 

He nodded.

 

“He’ll recover,” she said softly, feeling the need to give him some comfort.

 

“There is no other option. I should go, or I’ll be late for muster. Again. And if your neighbours see me, there will be gossip.”

 

She shrugged. “I don’t care about gossip.” Her eyes focused on him with concern. She was not so sure he would make it to the garrison--wherever it was. 

 

Constance handed him his doublet and weapons. She cast a longing gaze at his rapier. 

 

_ Behave!   _ She scolded herself.

 

“If you ever need any help, Madame, please come to the musketeers’ garrison.” He spoke stoically, but it was obvious that he was struggling to stay on his feet. 

 

She smiled. He had just given her the opening she needed.

 

“Why don’t you show me the way to the garrison?” she suggested with a smile. “That way I will know how to find you if I am in trouble.”

 

“It would be my honor, Madame,” he replied with a bow.

 

She did not feel like a madame. When she left the house on the arm of the swaying musketeer, she felt like a young child finally about to receive a long-promised reward.

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
